Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Vicky ignored the quick thrill of their pushback, focusing on staying practical. “Because we live on different coasts. And I’m not doing some long-distance thing destined to fail.”
“Long distance?” Dylan ran an uneasy hand through their hair. Vicky could tell Dylan had not gotten that far in their thinking. “I guess you’re right,” they murmured.
“I’m not moving to L.A., and unless you’ve been busy cooking up some plan to relocate to New York…?” Vicky dangled the question.
For one wild, unfiltered moment, she imagined Dylan casually making a grand romantic reveal: a canceled flight. A lease on a one-bedroom apartment. A plan.
But Dylan live-in-the-now Rogers just looked caught off guard. “Uh, no. Just been cooking…chocolate.”
Vicky ignored her childish crush of disappointment. “Exactly. So this is…a summer fling,” she said, testing the idea. “Right?”
Dylan flinched. Their brows drew down. “Yeah,” they said in a teenage monotone. “Cool.”
Vicky huffed annoyance, pushing both drinks out of the way and leaning across the table.
“Hey,” she said, “I don’t want to feel like one of those annoying couples in movies where you’re like, ‘Jeez, all this drama would just be resolved by one honest conversation.’ So, tell me how you’re really feeling.
What you’re really thinking. We’re not dumb teenagers anymore. You owe me that.”
Dylan looked briefly shocked. “Yeah, you’re right.” They sat up a little, pushing their hair out of their eyes. “What I’m thinking is, this doesn’t feel like a fling. This feels like something more.” Dylan’s expression became unguarded, their voice earnest. “I like you, Vee. I always have.”
A dangerous amount of joy bubbled in Vicky’s chest. The door to a new future cracked open. Dylan, waking up next to her in Manhattan, stark naked and sleepy-hot, the contents of their overnight bag strewn across the bedroom floor…
“But,” Dylan went on, “if you want me to be honest…”
“I do,” Vicky said, even as a warning flare went off in her stomach.
Dylan let out a very long breath. “I guess I don’t think we’d actually make it.”
The words hit like a sucker punch. Vicky worked hard to keep her voice neutral. “Why not?”
Dylan hesitated. “It’s not that I don’t believe in love. I’ve been in love. But in my experience, love doesn’t last. Even true love, even big love. Maybe it’s not supposed to.” Dylan paused, gaze flicking toward the window. “Or maybe people don’t know how to make it work.”
Vicky sat back in the booth, stunned. “What—why—do you think that?”
“Apart from the fact that I’m still single?
” Dylan puffed out a breath, leaning forward across the booth.
“Okay, so, my dad used to have this old cuckoo clock. German, I think. Red and brown with these little green shutters, and a tiny painted bird that popped out every hour. He loved that thing. Like, weirdly loved it. Said it reminded him to be present or some shit.”
Vicky listened, every muscle tense.
Dylan went on. “But then one day, the bird stopped coming out. It jammed; the chime got messed up. Started going off at all the wrong times. Dad kept it, though. Refused to get rid of it. He’d wind it every night, even though it didn’t work.
Then one day my mom threw it out. Tossed it.
No warning. Like it was nothing. He was so upset.
” Dylan looked up at Vicky with a raw expression.
“Maybe love is like a busted clock we keep winding, because we’re too scared to admit it’s already broken.
Or that someone else might throw it away before we’re ready to let go. ”
Vicky stared down at her soda, her throat tightening. She had the urge to say something—to tell Dylan that maybe love was fragile, but that didn’t make it worthless. That maybe we still wind the clock because hope matters.
But what the hell did she know?
Dylan went on. “Sex with you is”—they let out a short laugh—“literally the best. I really like you.” Dylan’s gaze softened. “And some dumb romantic part of me wonders…if maybe…”
What? Vicky wanted to scream. Some dumb romantic part of you wonders what?
But then Dylan looked back, their expression firming up. “You’re right. This is a fling. Summer fun. We don’t let things get too emotional. That’ll only make leaving harder. And it’s already going to be hard.”
Vicky went cold. This was exactly what she’d expected. Exactly what she didn’t want to hear.
“What about you?” Dylan asked. “What’s your take on love?”
Vicky blinked, feeling exposed. “What do you mean?”
“How did love end for you in the past?” Dylan asked.
Vicky chugged half her soda. “Love?”
Dylan frowned. “You have been in love, right? I mean, you’re thirty-seven.” They flicked her arm. “So old, remember?”
Vicky braced herself. This conversation may have been a terrible mistake. “I’ve had girlfriends. But, the truth is…” She glanced down at the space between them, her heart pounding with nerves. “Shit, not even my sisters know this.”
“Know what?”
“I’ve never said ‘I love you’ to anyone,” Vicky admitted. “Except once. To a cat.”
Dylan’s mouth fell all the way open. “You’ve never been in love?”
“I don’t know! Maybe?” Vicky let out a strained, embarrassed laugh.
“You don’t get it—growing up, my parents never said ‘I love you.’ Not to each other, not to me, not to my sisters.
They did love us, I think…but they showed it by doing things for us.
Like, giving us food and rides and money.
But words?” Vicky let out a dry laugh. “Nope. So, I guess that’s why.
I mean, if no one’s ever said it to you, how do you know how, or when, or why, to say it yourself? ”
Dylan was still wide-eyed. “But has anyone ever said it to you? Like an ex?”
Vicky nodded miserably.
“What’d you say back?” Dylan asked.
Vicky made a sheesh face. “That I needed to pee. Which I did. Too much sangria.”
Dylan laughed, a shocked, charmed laugh. They reached across the table to take Vicky’s hand with an affectionate smile. “Oh, honey.”
“Shut up!” Vicky shot back, even as she folded her fingers into Dylan’s, squeezing tight.
“Sounds like neither of us are very good at love,” Dylan said.
Far from it being upsetting, the idea felt oddly generous. Vicky was expecting fuck-boy Dylan to mock her romantic inexperience. Instead, Dylan seemed not just to understand, but to feel a little kinship. “Yeah,” Vicky agreed. “We suck.”
Dylan laughed. “Maybe that’ll make this easier—we’re on the same page. We fuck like dirty little sluts for the rest of the month, then after the show, shake hands like gentlemen and bid each other adieu.”
Deep down, Vicky knew it wouldn’t be that simple.
That feelings were already involved—neither was even pretending otherwise.
But she truly was so inexperienced in this whole love thing—maybe she could compartmentalize.
Keep emotion out of it, like she did at work.
“Sounds like a plan,” Vicky said. “But maybe you shouldn’t call me honey. That might be confusing.”
Dylan smiled, their thumb sliding over the back of Vicky’s hand. “Deal. I won’t call you honey.”
Instantly, the potential absence of this pet name made Vicky feel like she’d lost something. No one ever called her honey. “I said maybe you shouldn’t,” she backtracked. “Maybe it’s okay. But only until you leave. And all this sexual insanity is…over.”
Dylan let out a short sigh. Their eyes became a little sad as they gazed at Vicky. “Whatever you want, honey.”
Vicky knew she should pull her hand back, move the conversation on. Or just go home and fuck until she couldn’t think at all. But she just stayed there, in their booth, holding hands with Dylan Rogers. Pretending she wasn’t absolutely terrified of the crushing loss to come.